


All We Do Is Fall

by vitruvianwatson (keepyoureyesfixedonme)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, POV John Watson, Pining John, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 04:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14662959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepyoureyesfixedonme/pseuds/vitruvianwatson
Summary: There's obviously a very good reason for Sherlock to take over John's bed in the middle of the night.  It'sabsolutelynot just because Sherlock is a drama queen, no siree, not at all.





	1. A Bump in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This fic (like half of the fics I post these days) originated on [my Tumblr](https://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com) and is still being updated. You can follow along on there or on here. :) This began with me asking for people to send me prompts so that I could write some short little ficlets to get my brain churning, but since I'm basically incapable of writing anything short...this happened instead. Who knows when it will end tbh?
> 
> The prompt was given to me by [fly-out-of-window-hand-in-hand](https://fly-out-of-window-hand-in-hand.tumblr.com) and then embellished by [bakerstreetcrow](https://bakerstreetcrow.tumblr.com) and [theconsultinglinguist](https://theconsultinglinguist.tumblr.com). The prompt can be found [in the notes on this post](https://http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com/post/173522549255/vitruvianwatson-if-anyone-has-any-fluffy), although be warned that it will give away the end of the chapter. Not that it's a big humdinger of a surprise, but it is kind of cute tbh. So that's up to you.
> 
> Anyway, I'm done chatting now. Enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: I changed the title of this fic because it just wasn't quite what I wanted. I hope this doesn't confuse too many people.

The occasional loud  _bang_  or small explosion isn’t an uncommon occurrence at 221B Baker Street, so John doesn’t get worried about the noises coming from Sherlock’s room until about the fifth time he hears what sounds like a frying pan slamming into unforgiving wood.  That’s when he sighs, rolls out of his nice, warm bed, and goes to investigate.

Other than the ruckus coming from down the hall, the flat is quiet.  It’s after midnight, and the kitchen is dense with darkness as John carefully maneuvers through it—unwilling to turn on the light and blind his still half-asleep eyes—dodging the newspapers and bills that have slid onto the floor from the kitchen table and the bowl of what looks like mold that has, for some godforsaken reason, been left by the doorway.  He knocks into the table at one point, and his quiet curse is lost in the chorus of jars and flasks clinking together.  He presses a hand to his now-bruised hip, rubs his eyes tiredly with the other, and then continues down the hall.

He doesn’t bother knocking because he’s decided that if Sherlock is going to wake him up in the middle of the night he doesn’t deserve the right to his privacy.  He swings the door open, angry words already on his lips.

“Sherlock, what the bloody  _hell_  are you—?”

Three things happen simultaneously.  The door opens only halfway before knocking into something hard; Sherlock makes a startled, high-pitched sound John has never heard before; and there’s a loud  _crash_  that shakes the floor and is sure to wake the whole damn street.  John is on the verge of shouting when he realizes what’s made the sound, and he’s in the room in an instant, dropping to his knees beside Sherlock where he’s sprawled out on the floor.

“Sherlock, are you all right?  Hey, can you hear me?”  He presses two fingers beneath Sherlock’s jaw; his pulse is steady and strong, if a bit fast.

“Ow.”  Sherlock’s voice is muffled by the floor, and John lets out a sigh of relief.

“Can you get up?  Does anything hurt?”

Sherlock opens one eye and manages half a glare.  “You just knocked me off a chair, of  _course_  it bloody hurts.  Don’t you call yourself a doctor?”

John sits back on his heels, his irritation returning with record speed.  “Well, what the hell were you doing standing on a chair anyway?  It’s the middle of the night, why aren’t you in bed?”

Sherlock pushes himself up into a sitting position, wincing as his elbows pop.  “Now you sound more like Mummy than a doctor.”

John is momentarily distracted by the image of a young Sherlock, glaring defiantly up at his mother in the middle of the night, his hair in disarray and his face covered in filth from whatever he’d accidentally blown up.  It’s almost enough to make him smile, but then he remembers that he’s supposed to be annoyed, and he makes a point of rolling his eyes.

“Get up, you git, let me look at you.  C’mon, on the bed.”

The mattress is soft, much softer than John’s old double upstairs.  It sinks invitingly, almost hugging his arse, when he sits down beside Sherlock who is frowning down at his hands while he rubs at one of his wrists.

“Hey, look at me,” John says, tapping the edge of one sharp jaw gently.  That chin comes up at the touch, and John’s fingers apply gentle pressure.  Sherlock obediently tilts his head to the left and right, but his eyes remain fixed on John’s, and he’s so close that it makes the breath stall in John’s chest.  He swallows and drops his hand.  Sherlock’s eyes narrow in that way that means he’s trying to pull whatever John’s thinking straight out of his brain.

It’s been happening more often lately, this thing where they look at each other and all the air between them seems to sizzle and burn up so that there’s nothing left between them but pure, raw  _energy_ , energy that John doesn’t know what to do with and that always leaves him feeling twitchy and anxious.

He clears his throat and tries to speak in his most Stern Doctor Voice, despite the ball of anxiety in his chest.  “I’m going to trust you if you tell me that you didn’t hit your head, but if I have to get out of bed again to rush you to hospital in an hour I’ll kill you myself.”

Sherlock is still watching him, still trying to pull apart the jumbled thoughts in John’s head.  “I didn’t hit my head,” he says and then adds, a bit softer,  “I promise, John.”

It’s a calculated response, John knows.  The softening of his voice, the way John’s name rumbles in his chest, a quiet murmur of comfort.  He knows it’s purposeful, that Sherlock is doing it to ease his anxiety, and it should make him angry that Sherlock is manipulating him, but he can’t be because it works.  His shoulders drop slightly as the tension drains out of them, and his heart slows from its hammering beat to a more gentle rhythm.  Sherlock watches, as always, and then he cocks his head.

“I do think, however,” he continues carefully, “that I’ve injured my wrist.  Probably just a sprain, if even that.”

John pulls in a breath and nods.  “Let’s see it.”

It helps, having something to do, a problem on which to focus.  Sherlock probably knows that, too, and is using it to his advantage.  He sits quietly while John examines his wrist, and John is a good doctor, so he’s able to ignore the way Sherlock’s gaze is boring into his face for a few minutes while he ascertains the depth of the injury.

Sherlock’s skin is smooth and soft beneath his fingers, pale except around the protrusion of bone where it’s gone a bit purple.  John presses gently, and Sherlock’s hand twitches, but there’s no other reaction.  Good sign.  He cradles Sherlock’s hand in both of his own and tells him to turn it one way and then the other.  Once he’s done so, without any sign of difficulty or pain, John has the sudden and overwhelming urge to lean forward and press his lips to Sherlock’s palm.  

Instead, he licks his lips and releases his grip, nodding once.  “It’s just bruised.  It’ll be fine, but if it’s painful I can wrap it.  If you like.”

The delicate fingers of Sherlock’s left hand encircle the bruised wrist, and he rubs at the bone with his thumb.  “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

One side of John’s mouth lifts.  “I figured as much.  Now, are you gonna tell me what you were doing up on that chair?  And what all that ridiculous banging around was about?”

At first, John thinks he might be imagining the flush that appears high on Sherlock’s cheekbones, but then it spreads, covering his face and working its way down his neck.  His eyes finally cut away, and he mumbles something that John doesn’t quite catch.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Sherlock huffs, and he’s so clearly embarrassed that it makes John’s chest ache with a combination of  _I can’t wait to hear this_ and  _Fuck, he’s adorable._

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the window, very deliberately not looking at John now.  “I  _said_ there’s a mosquito in my room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!!


	2. Scotland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two, which, despite the title, does not actually take place in Scotland, sorry. 
> 
> I hope to get you all Chapter Three by the end of this week. If not, please try to be patient with me. I'm terribly slow sometimes. <3 Don't forget, you can also follow along on my Tumblr if you like.

“You do know this is ridiculous, right?”

Sherlock’s only response is a dramatic roll of his eyes, and then he turns over in the bed to face the wall.  John stands next to the bed— _his_ bed—and rubs the back of his neck.  The light is still on, and Sherlock is wrapped up in his sheets like he actually belongs there.  John honestly doesn’t know whether he wants to hit him or kiss him.  Actually, he  _does_ know which one he wants to do, and that’s what’s putting him on edge.

“Honestly, it’s just one mosquito.  It’s not going to kill you.”

It had been funny at first, Sherlock’s dramatics over a single mosquito.  John had laughed himself silly, perched on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, while Sherlock glared at him with crossed arms and proclaimed that it wasn’t funny because he was allergic, which only made John laugh harder.  He’d only stopped laughing when Sherlock had declared that, since John had made him lose track of the mosquito, he was going to be commandeering John’s bed, which is how John found himself standing over his bed, feeling jittery and anxious while Sherlock made himself comfortable.

“I’ve already told you, John, I’m  _allergic_.  I would think, as a  _doctor_ , you would understand my hesitance to remain in my room.”

“Yeah, fine, but there’s a perfectly decent sofa down there,” John points out, gesturing toward the sitting room through the floor even though Sherlock isn’t looking at him.  “You sleep there half the time anyway.”

Sherlock huffs and sits up, glaring at John.  “I have to be in court tomorrow to testify for Lestrade about the triple murder from a few months ago.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I need a good night’s rest, John, which I won’t get on that bloody sofa!  Now, either shut up and get in, or go away so I can sleep!”

He flings himself back down onto the bed, curling up into a ball and pulling the covers all the way up to his chin.  It would be adorable if John weren’t vibrating with tension.

He throws his hands up into the air.  “Fine,  _I’ll_ sleep on the sofa then.”

“Don’t be an idiot, your shoulder will ache for days,” Sherlock says, his voice muffled in the sheets.

“Then I’ll sleep in your room,” John counters.  “I’m not afraid of a bloody mosquito.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, but then he sits up again, more slowly this time, turning until he’s facing John.  His eyes are piercing and narrowed.  “Why are you being so strange about this?  We’ve shared a room before.  We’ve even shared a bed before."

John has a sudden, vivid memory of waking up in a dingy inn in Scotland, the light filtering in through the white curtains without much conviction as if even the sun hadn’t wanted to get up that day.  He remembers being warm and feeling so utterly at peace in a way he hadn’t ever felt before.  He hadn’t known why at first, not until he tried to shift his shoulder into a more comfortable position and had felt the comforting weight of someone else’s arm curved over his side, holding him in place.  His breath had caught, and Sherlock had taken a deep breath, one that John could feel against his back where it was pressed against Sherlock’s chest, but he hadn’t woken; he’d simply nuzzled his nose into John’s shoulder and sighed, his breath tickling John’s skin.  It had been so hard not to turn in those arms, not to see him there, wrapped around John and content with it.  It had been even harder to pull out of that embrace before Sherlock woke.

A car horn blares outside from a disgruntled driver, and John slams back into the present, suddenly unsteady on his feet.  He grips the headboard and licks his lips.

“It just seems silly when we’ve got two perfectly good beds, that’s all,” he says, hoping Sherlock won’t notice the way he has to squeeze the words from the tightness of his throat.  How can he explain that it’s different because this isn’t some strange bed in some random room that he’ll never see again?  This is  _his_  bed, the one he has to sleep in every night, and if he curls up next to Sherlock and feels him there, close enough to touch, then he’ll forever hate being alone in it after Sherlock inevitably goes back to his own room, his own bed.  How does he explain that without saying everything else that he’s been so carefully avoiding putting into words?

Sherlock’s eyes narrow further, but he doesn’t call John on the lie.  “Do what you want.  I’m going to sleep.”

And with that, he lies back down and doesn’t say another word.  John rocks on his feet for another few seconds, torn between the safety of being alone and the yearning for the warmth of Sherlock’s body in his bed.  Finally, he grits his teeth and pulls back the covers.  His arm brushes the curve of Sherlock’s back as he slips into the bed, and he represses the urge to run his hand all along the length of that spine, to feel the bones and muscles beneath, to knead all the tension from that body with his fingers.  He represses that urge and the next one that tells him to mold his body to Sherlocks, to hold him like Sherlock had held him that one night.  And the next one that tells him to wrap his fingers in the strands of Sherlock’s hair just to find out what it feels like.  

He resists them all, flicks the switch on the lamp, and lies down on his back, staring up at the ceiling, every part of himself focused on the sound of Sherlock’s breath in the quiet space, on the way his warmth seeps into John even though they aren’t touching, on the way his body uncurls itself from its tight ball as he slips into dreams.  He shifts, turning so that he’s facing John, his breaths deep and even and his mouth hanging open slightly, and his knee brushes John’s.  John closes his eyes and just breathes, wondering if Sherlock will again find his way to his side of the bed in the night.

 

* * *

 

Waking up isn’t like Scotland; it’s so much worse.  At least he’s prepared for it this time, though.

The first thing he notices is that he’s very hot.  One half of his body is warmer than the other half, and there’s something that’s much harder than a pillow beneath his cheek.  Holding his breath, he cracks one eye open and finds himself staring down the length of a lean body, a body that’s so familiar to him that he feels sure he could draw every dip and curve of it from memory alone (if he had any artistic talent, that is).

John’s head lies heavily on Sherlock’s bony shoulder, and his forehead is sticky with sweat where it’s been hidden in the curve of that long neck.  He doesn’t move, can’t bring himself to, not when he can watch the steady rise and fall of that deceptively thin chest on which his left hand rests, his fingers just barely curled into soft cotton, the beat of Sherlock’s heart pulsing up into his palm.

He swallows around the ache in his throat, the one that always creeps in whenever he allows himself to imagine having this, a world where he can wake up like this every day, a world where Sherlock won’t open his eyes and push him away the minute he realizes what’s happened.  But then...

 _Would_  Sherlock push him away?  John really isn’t sure anymore.  There have been so many times when he thought Sherlock might kiss him, might take his hand on a long walk back to Baker Street, might press him back against an alley wall and say, breathlessly, “I want this.”  But they’ve never tumbled over that ledge, only teetered at the edge of it, and John can’t help thinking it’s because Sherlock doesn’t want that complication in his life.

He shuts his eyes tightly, telling himself that it’s fine, that he doesn’t need more than what he’s got when it comes to Sherlock.  He doesn’t need the touching, the kissing, the sex, the confessions, any of it.  He doesn’t need to know what the patch of skin behind Sherlock’s ear tastes like; he doesn’t need to feel Sherlock’s lips against his belly or Sherlock’s hands in his hair; he definitely doesn’t need to hear Sherlock’s voice in his ear, whispering that he wants this, wants John,  _loves_  John.  

He tells himself these things over and over.  He tells himself that as long as they’re together in this flat, he doesn’t need anything else.

“John, you need to breathe.”

Sherlock’s voice, scratchy and low with sleep, rumbles in his ear, and John sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes flying open.  He’d been so lost in his head that he hadn’t noticed the shift in Sherlock’s awareness, hadn’t caught the stutter in his breath that meant he was waking or felt his arm move where it had been curled around John’s back.  

Now there are long fingers threading through his hair, pressing into his scalp, and John lifts his head just enough to look into Sherlock’s eyes.  Sherlock looks back at him, open and concerned in a way John has only rarely seen.  His other hand, the one not still cradling the back of John’s head, comes to rest over John’s where he’s accidentally clenched it around a fistful of Sherlock’s shirt.  John watches in something of a daze as Sherlock’s fingers settle over his own.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”  He doesn’t know what else to say.

Sherlock shakes his head gently, a few sleep-tangled curls spilling onto his forehead.  “Nightmare?”

John’s eyes sting, and he blinks rapidly.  “Something like that.”  He forces himself to push away, to sit up, and as Sherlock’s hands slide from his skin it feels as though he’s being burned.

Sherlock frowns.  “John—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” John says, throwing him a tight smile as he heads for his closet.  “You have to be at court today, remember?  Better stay focused on that, you know, get ready.”

There’s a crease between Sherlock’s brows, one that always deepens when he frowns that way.  “I’m always ready,” he says, but his voice is distant and his eyes are still tracking John’s every movement as though he’ll miss something very important if he looks away for even a second.

John’s laugh sounds forced even to his own ears, and he grabs the first pair of trousers and the first shirt that he finds and heads for the door.  “I’ll just brush my teeth and get dressed, and then the loo’s all yours, yeah?”

He’s already halfway out the door, and he takes one more glance back to Sherlock who is sitting up in John’s bed, the sheets tangled around his legs, his hair sticking out in every direction, and a few pillow creases lining the very edge of his face.  He’s watching John with an unreadable expression, his eyes shadowed and blank, but his mouth is still set in that little frown that means he’s confused or frustrated or both.

All John can do is give him one more strained smile and then he’s in the hall and shutting the door behind him.  He leans back against it for a long moment, taking deep breaths down into his stomach just the way Ella taught him, but by the time he gets to the loo he still feels like he’s just jumped off a cliff and can’t stop falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, it will get happier! I swear!


	3. Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this one ended up being a bit of a whopper! I hope you enjoy it! <3

The pub isn’t too crowded thanks to the fact that a lot of people don’t like to share their drinking with a bunch of Scotland Yarders, lawyers, and one antisocial consulting detective, but the noise is still enough to make John’s head ache.  He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, wishing he could lie down for a while.  He’s sure Sherlock will be ready to leave soon, so he’ll use that as his excuse to bugger off.  But for the moment, he’s just nursing his beer and trying not to think about the way he’s almost positive he can feel Sherlock’s eyes boring into the back of his skull from across the room.

“He did well today.”

John looks up while taking a sip, accidentally sloshing beer on himself in the process, and finds Greg settling onto the stool beside his at the bar.

“Who?” John asks as he mops himself off with a flimsy napkin, and he’s immediately thankful that Sherlock isn’t within earshot because the question is hardly out of his mouth, still floating in the air between himself and Greg, when he already knows the answer, obvious as it is.  To be fair to himself, they’ve been at the pub for a couple of hours, celebrating the outcome of the case, and he’s a bit buzzed.

“Sherlock,” Greg says, nodding toward the table in the far corner where the subject of their discussion sits by himself, still wrapped up in his coat and scarf, typing furiously on his phone and glaring at anyone who attempts to engage him in conversation.  “In court today, he did well, don’t you think?”

“Well, he didn’t get himself arrested this time, so that’s a plus,” John says.  He tosses one more look over at Sherlock, not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed about the fact that he seems to be so engrossed in his mobile.

Greg laughs.  “Cheers to that.”  

They clink their glasses together, and John downs the rest of his beer.  Greg drinks his more slowly, still half-turned toward John, and John slowly becomes aware that the detective inspector—more observant than Sherlock gives him credit for—is scrutinizing him, clearly trying to discern something or other.  It’s not as unnerving as when Sherlock does it, mainly because Sherlock makes him feel like he can actually see into John’s brain, but it still makes him shift uncomfortably.

"Something on my face?”

Greg tilts his head, a small, unreadable smile on his face.  “I’ve just been wondering why you’re both so subdued today.”

A faint flush touches John’s cheeks that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with the memory of waking up that morning wrapped around Sherlock Holmes.  

It’s true that they’d both been skirting around each other since John’s awkward exit from his own room.  John actually hadn’t even been intending to attend court with Sherlock; he was never needed anyway.  But then Sherlock had walked out of his bedroom, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt, and noticed John sitting there in his chair, still in his robe with the morning paper spread out before him, and he’d paused, one of those tiny, genuine frowns on his face, the kind that made John want to rub his thumb over those ridiculous lips until it went away.

“Why aren’t you dressed?”

John’s brow had crinkled in confusion.  “Why am I supposed to be?”

It was Sherlock’s hesitation in that moment more than anything else that prompted John to go with him.  It was the slight nervous fluttering of his fingertips against his thigh, the way his throat worked a little harder around a swallow, and the way his eyes cut away briefly to the window before he spoke, the calm coolness of his voice only slightly betrayed by the hitch in his words.

“I thought we had agreed that you should...be there.”

John had licked his lips, unsure whether or not to trust the lingering suspicion that the words “with me” were hiding behind Sherlock’s clamped teeth, trying to force their way out into the space between them.  After a moment of silence and indecision, he’d simply folded up the paper, set it on his chair, and gone upstairs to change.

What followed had been a quiet cab ride, during which they had both stared out of their separate windows.  The space between them had felt enormous and lifeless like an entire desert had opened up between them in the time since John had rolled out of bed.  He could see Sherlock’s reflection in the window; he had one hand up by his mouth, his pointer finger tapping against his lower lip as if he was craving a cigarette.  He’d wanted to reach over and pull that hand into his own, curl their fingers together and kiss Sherlock’s wrist, feel his heart beat against his lips, but that desert yawned between them, vast and unforgiving, impossible to cross without the promise of reciprocation.

Now, John glances back at the corner of the pub again, and something tugs at him when their gazes briefly lock before Sherlock’s eyes dart back to the phone in his hands.  John sighs and turns back around.

“I’m not sure ‘subdued’ is a word that could ever be applied to Sherlock,” he says, trying to keep his tone light.  He taps on the bar with his knuckles, gesturing to the bartender for another pint.

“Oh, I dunno,” Greg says, and he looks over at Sherlock’s table again.  John pointedly doesn’t follow suit.  “I mean, he’s always aloof and all that, but he’s not usually so...tense at these celebratory outings.  Especially not since you came into the picture.”

John forces a laugh.  He feels like he’s been doing a lot of that today.  “I’m not sure which Sherlock Holmes you’ve been talking to, but  _my_  Sher—I mean, the Sherlock  _I_ know is pretty much always tense at social gatherings.”

There’s a beat of silence, during which the flush on John’s cheeks spreads across his nose, down his neck because  _honestly what a goddamn fuckup_ that _was_ , but Greg, being the fucking saint that he is, doesn’t mention the Freudian slip.

“I dunno, John, I think you might be confusing tension with boredom,” he says.  “Actually, to be perfectly honest, you’re usually the tense one between the two of you.  Sherlock’s just...well, he’s pretty comfortable in his own skin, isn’t he?”

The bartender sets John’s beer down, and John doesn’t hesitate before taking a long gulp.  When he finally sets the glass back down on the bar with an unsteady  _clunk_ , he licks his lips and looks at Greg, eyes narrowed.

“You think I’m not comfortable in my own skin?”

Greg shrugs.  “I think it depends on the situation.”  He glances sideways at John, a twinkle in his eye.  “Or who you’re with.”

John knows he shouldn’t ask,  _knows_  Greg is baiting him, but he does it anyway, albeit with a tight smile that he hopes serves as a warning to Greg that he needs to tread carefully here.  “Care to elaborate?”

That twinkle in Greg’s eye seems to expand, and he claps John on the shoulder.  “I’m just saying, Watson.  You two’ve been through a lot together.  What’s one more leap, eh?”

John rolls his eyes.  “People love to talk about leaping, but I’ve noticed they never talk about the actual falling part.  You know, the part where you’re hurtling toward the ground.  That’s the part that I get stuck on, see.”

Something softens in Greg’s expression, and John thinks he’s maybe let on a bit too much.  It must be pretty obvious why that’s the part he gets stuck on.  He still has nightmares about it, usually when he’s been drinking (which doesn’t bode well for later).  It’s never the same one twice in a row.  Sometimes it’s just Sherlock’s bloody skull on the pavement;  sometimes he’s watching through Sherlock’s eyes as the ground flies up to meet him; other times he’s watching Sherlock fall and fall and fall, and John is stuck in his spot on the pavement, his feet so heavy he can’t move them, can’t save him.  Those are the worst ones, the ones that make him wake up in a cold sweat.

A squeeze of his shoulder brings John back into the present, and Greg’s voice is quiet.  “Falling’s not so bad when there’s someone there to catch you.”

John shakes his head once, an aborted motion, and blinks rapidly.  He gulps down the rest of his beer and stands up, throwing some change onto the bar and trying to ignore the way his head swims with the sudden change in position.  He really should’ve slowed down on those last couple of beers.

“Gotta get going,” he says.  He’s tired of waiting for Sherlock to get bored enough to drag him out.  He wants to go home.

He takes a step, forgetting in his haze that the bar is up a level; it's just one step, but it's enough to make him stumble backward.  Greg’s eyes widen in alarm, and he’s halfway off of his stool, one hand outstretched to grab at John’s arm, but it’s unnecessary.  John’s back hits something solid and warm, and there’s a hand at his elbow, another curving around his ribs.

“It’s all right, Lestrade, I’ve got it,” says a familiar voice.  The deep baritone, uncharacteristically soft, vibrates against the shell of John’s ear, and he only barely has enough sense left not to let his eyes fall closed at the sensation, not to lean back into the warmth of that body and let his head loll against Sherlock’s shoulder.  

Instead, he lets Sherlock guide him to the door, watching blearily as Greg sinks back into his seat, an annoyingly knowing smile on his face.  John tries to give him the finger, but Greg just laughs and returns a cheeky salute.

“Time to go, John,” Sherlock says quietly, and John allows himself to be led out of the pub and into the crisp night air.

He instantly feels better when the door shuts behind them and the noise and chaos from inside is drowned out by the rushing of the wind in his ears and the tires spinning through puddles on the street, spitting water up onto the pavement as so many Londoners rush to get home.

Sherlock throws out one hand, the other still wrapped around John’s upper arm, and a taxi comes screeching to a halt as usual.  John would roll his eyes for the millionth time at Sherlock’s uncanny ability to make cabs stop for him except that he’s afraid he might actually fall over if he tries.

“You know, it’s not that impressive,” he says instead as he halfway falls into the cab.

Sherlock slides in gracefully beside him.  “Baker Street,” he says to the cabbie before addressing John.  “What isn’t?”

“You.  The taxi thing.”  He gestures inarticulately.  “With the hand and the stopping and all that.  It’s not that impressive anymore.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches.  “Is that so?”

“Mmhmm,” John mumbles, slipping down in his seat until he’s semi-wedged in the corner between seat and door.  He presses his forehead to the window, the glass cool and welcome.  “What with all that...oobly nonsense now.  Anyone can get a ride.  Not that impressive.

The twitch turns into a badly repressed smile.  “Oobly?”

“Yeah,” John says.  “You know.  That car thing where you have the phone and the car comes to get you and all that.”

Sherlock turns his head, but John can see his expression in the reflection of the window.  He’s grinning now, his cheeks plumping a bit, the lines around his eyes fanning out.  He looks so unfairly cute when he does that.

“Uber.”

“Huh?” John says, distracted by the way Sherlock’s neck curves beneath the collar of his coat, by the way his skin, so smooth and pale, contrasts so nicely against the dark, rough wool.

Sherlock looks at him again, traces of his amusement still lingering in the softness of his gaze it settles on John.  “That’s what it’s called.  Uber.  Not oobly.”

“Yeah,” John says, not really listening at all.  It hard to concentrate on Sherlock’s words when his mouth is just right there, begging John to stare at it.  He’s never seen lips quite like them, and his hand curls against his own thigh, his fingers itching to touch them, to trace them, to dip in between them and find out if Sherlock’s tongue is just as warm and inviting as he’s always imagined it.

“John?”

There’s a subtle hitch to the way his name comes out of Sherlock’s mouth, and John jerks his eyes up guiltily.  A delicate flush has colored Sherlock’s cheekbones, breathing heat into his face in a way that John has rarely seen.  

He licks his lips, thinking that this is certainly different from their previous cab ride.  He opens his mouth, but that’s when the taxi rolls to a stop, and the driver turns to inform them that they’ve arrived.

Sherlock gives John one more sweeping look, and then he opens the door, exiting the cab in a dramatic flourish that has John stumbling to keep up.  While Sherlock pays the fare, John makes his way to the front door, fumbling in his coat pockets for his keys and coming up empty-handed.  He’s still frowning down at his own useless appendages when, for the second time that night, there’s a line of solid warmth along his back and a low voice in his ear.

“Wrong pocket,” Sherlock says, so close that John can _feel_ the words, and he sucks in a sharp breath when nimble fingers slip into the front pocket of his trousers.  Even in his mostly-drunk state John can tell that Sherlock’s hand lingers for far longer than it has to, hooking the keys around one finger and allowing the others to drag, hot and firm, against John’s thigh.

The fucked up part is John can’t actually  _tell_  if Sherlock is doing it on purpose.  He can’t tell if Sherlock is flirting with him.  In the cab it had seemed like maybe John was making him uncomfortable with his drunken leering, but now all John can sense is the heady buzz of  _heat_  and  _want_.  But he’s drunk, and he can’t possibly trust himself to decipher his mad flatmate’s actions when he’s in such a state, so when Sherlock finally withdraws and brushes past him, one hand grazing the small of John’s back, he forces out the word “Thanks” and follows him inside, unable to keep from staring at Sherlock’s fingers as they smoothly slide the key into the lock.

And god, now he has to go up  _stairs_.  Just the thought makes him exhausted.  He groans, leaning against the wall in defeat, and Sherlock just chuckles.  He pockets John’s keys—there’s a stab of disappointment when he puts them in his  _own_  pocket instead of back in John’s—and wraps a hand around John’s wrist, pulling him away from the wall.

“Don’t be such a child,” he says, but he sounds amused.  “It’s just one flight of stairs.”

Something’s not quite right about that statement, but John can’t put his finger on it at the moment, especially not when Sherlock is touching him, steadying him as they slowly progress up towards the flat.  John’s vision blurs, and he almost trips, but Sherlock is there, one wiry arm secure around John’s waist.  John’s can’t help it this time; he tips his head to the side, and his nose skims the soft skin beneath Sherlock’s jaw where he smells like wool and warmth.  He thinks he hears Sherlock’s breath stutter; he thinks he feels Sherlock’s lips against his forehead.

“Hey, come on, just a little farther.”

John’s eyelids droop, and he’s only vaguely aware of the floor beneath him, of the shift from surface to surface, of the way his shoulder stings when they bump into the doorframe in the kitchen, of the opening of a door and the cool darkness that envelops them.

He’s a little bit more aware of Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders, squeezing briefly and then sliding his jacket down his arms; of being gently pushed down onto the bed—soft, too soft, why is it so soft?—and Sherlock kneeling down in front of him, his fingers working the laces of John’s shoes with swift, graceful movements.  He’s aware of Sherlock’s hand cradling his calf with one hand while he pulls the shoe from his foot; of the startled way Sherlock looks up at him when John’s fingertips just barely graze his temple, brushing a stray curl back.  For a moment they’re frozen that way, and John wishes he wasn’t so tired, wishes that he hadn’t fled from his bed that morning, wishes that he wasn’t such a bloody coward.  

He drops his hand and falls back into the bed.  Sherlock’s stillness is palpable for another moment, but then he slowly removes John’s other shoe and maneuvers his legs onto the bed.  John turns over onto his stomach and breathes in, long and deep, and he suddenly realizes why what Sherlock had said about the stairs had been so wrong.

“This isn’t my bed,” he says, his voice muffled by the soft cotton.  Despite this realization, he makes absolutely no move to remove himself from it.  It smells like Sherlock, like that tiny whiff of him that John had gotten before only stronger and tinted with hints of sweat and coconut.

“No, it isn’t,” Sherlock says, and he sounds far away, too far.  John cracks an eye open.  Sherlock is in the doorway, framed by the muted light that’s creeping in from the hallway.

“Where’re you going?”

“You need to rest.  I’m going to work on—”

“It’s your room, though,” John interrupts, and he sounds far more petulant than a nearly middle-aged man should.  He lets his eyes fall shut again.  “Not mine.  Oh.  Is it the mosquito?  Is that why you won’t stay?”

“No, it’s not the mosquito, John.”  His voice is so  _so_  soft; John wants to wrap himself in it and let it lull him to sleep.

“You can stay,” he says, and he takes another deep inhale, breathing Sherlock in.  “I’ll protect you from the mosquito.  It won’t get you.”

He can feel Sherlock’s hesitation.  “You aren’t thinking clearly, John.”

John’s laugh is barely a breath of air.  “I’m hardly ever thinking clearly when you’re around, Sherlock.”  He sighs, and he’s already halfway asleep by the time it gets past his lips.  “Stay.  Please.”

After a few seconds of silence, the bedroom door clicks shut, and John falls asleep to the gentle rocking of his own body as Sherlock’s weight settles onto the mattress beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think their morning will be like this time? :D


	4. Interlude

The strands of John’s hair are a fascinating dichotomy of soft (blonde) and coarse (grey) as they slide through Sherlock’s fingers.  When John first moved in there had been more blonde than grey, but that ratio has evened out throughout the years.  Sherlock suspects he himself is mostly to blame for turning many of those hairs grey.  Jumping off a building, pretending to be dead for two years, coming back to life...that was all very stressful for John.  He hadn’t realized at the time just  _how_  stressful it was going to be.

He sighs, leaning his head back against the solid wood of the headboard and closing his eyes.  He’s been sitting in the bed for three hours now, his legs stretched out before him and one hand resting protectively in John’s hair.  About an hour after falling asleep, John had woken up, needing to use the loo.  When he’d climbed back into bed, crawling across Sherlock and slumping back down onto the mattress, he had pressed himself close to Sherlock’s legs, his forehead mashed against his hip and his hand curving possessively around his thigh, hugging him closer.  He’d fallen back to sleep quickly beneath the slow, steady sweep of Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock had gone back to contemplating his situation.

The problem is, Sherlock has never done this before, has never tried to  _woo_  anyone ( _ugh, what a horrible expression_ ).  He’s never wanted to before, of course, and, now that he does, he’s overwhelmingly out of his depth.  

He’s not blind; he’s seen what’s been happening between them lately.  It had happened before, this arc of heat that bounces between them whenever they look at each other.  Before Sherlock had thrown himself off a building, before he had left John behind and killed whatever had been brewing in the air of 221B Baker Street.  And now it’s happening again, and Sherlock knows what it means.  He knows that he’s not the only one who feels it; he can see it in John’s eyes, in the way they focus on his mouth, in the way his pupils dilate every time Sherlock’s skin brushes his own, in the way he licks his lips when Sherlock lowers his voice to a certain register.  

He knows that John wants him, as baffling as that simple truth is.

He also knows that John is scared.  Scared to risk what they have; scared that Sherlock will push him away; scared that he’ll open himself up completely and then Sherlock will run off without him again; scared that he’s not enough.  And Sherlock would be lying if he said he wasn’t scared, too, but he also knows what John doesn’t—that he’s never going to leave him again, not as long as John wants him there, that he’s here to stay.  That he’s John’s, through and through, and he always will be.  That he  _loves_ him so much he can feel it like a physical ache in his heart, in his throat, in his lungs.  It suffocates him every minute of every day, makes his head heavy and his chest hollow.

But he doesn’t know how to say these things.  He’s never known how to say these things.  The simplest way would be to just come right out and say them, of course, but he doesn’t think John is ready for that.  He’s afraid that John will run away from him if he throws that at him all in one go.  He’s been reliably informed that relationships should develop slowly, gradually.  Sitting John down and saying “I love you so much it’s unbearable, and I never want to sleep alone again, please will you just marry me and put me out of my misery?” would be...a bit much.

So when John had come into his room the night before, Sherlock found an excuse.  Maybe it was a bit not good, and he still feels the guilt of the lie twisting around in his stomach, but John would’ve gone back to to his bed alone, and Sherlock was so tired of not sleeping beside him, so exhausted by the mere thought of being by himself, of wallowing in this horrid torrent of emotion for one more minute.

He’d been thinking about it constantly, ever since Scotland two months before when he woken up in the middle of the night with an armful of John Watson.  He didn’t know which of them had moved in the night; he suspected both of them because they’d been in the center of the bed.  Either way, John’s body had been lined up tightly with his own, his back to Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock’s nose was pressed into the fine strands of his hair where he smelled of country wind and foreign shampoo.  

He knew, then, that he should move, that he should give John his space.  But when he tried he was hit with a thousand memories of his two years away, of the time he’d spent living from dingy hotel to dingy hotel, barely sleeping on filthy mattresses, never feeling safe and comfortable the way he did in that moment in Scotland.  So he let his hand slip from John’s waist to his chest, pulling him closer, burrowing into his warmth and safety and letting himself have this one night.

The next morning he’d woken in an empty, cold bed, and it was clear that John thought he knew nothing of their impromptu sleeping arrangement.  Sherlock let him live in his ignorance, but he ached to pull him back to the bed, to crawl back into his warmth and return to that otherwise unattainable peace.

So when he’d seen his chance last night, he had taken it, and he had hoped that maybe this time John wouldn’t bolt the minute he woke up and they could work things out from there.  Unfortunately, that plan had backfired spectacularly.

Sherlock tilts his head, looking down at the man that’s asleep in his bed, in his room, curled up around his legs.  He’s soft in his sleep, all the prickliness in his nature smoothed out into something warm and inviting.  Of course, he wouldn’t be John without his prickles, and Sherlock does adore him when his feathers are all ruffled, but there’s something so lovely about him when he’s this relaxed.  He wonders if John sleeps this way with everyone he shares a bed with.  And then he tries to banish that thought altogether because the stab of jealousy in between his ribs makes him feel ill.

Before he can dwell on this for too long, however, John’s hand twitches where it’s been resting on Sherlock’s thigh.  It starts with just one or two fingers, but then his hand curls into a fist, and he moves his head a bit jerkily.  Sherlock’s first theory is that he’s accidentally disturbed John with his constant petting, and his hand goes still in John’s hair.  John’s face pinches together, his lips going white, his eyes scrunched up tightly, and he mumbles something unintelligible.  A dream, then.  

But then a flood of tension courses through John’s body, potent enough that Sherlock can feel the way his muscles go rigid, and a tight, pained noise escapes his throat.

_Correction,_  Sherlock thinks.   _A nightmare._

“John,” Sherlock says as softly as he can.  John’s nightmares can be violent, and Sherlock doesn’t want to startle him.  “John, wake up.”

John keeps mumbling, and he grips Sherlock’s thigh hard enough to hurt.  Sherlock rests his hand over John’s, squeezing gently.  He scoots himself down until they’re side-by-side, their faces inches apart, still cradling John’s hand in between his own.

“John,” he whispers.  “John, it’s all right, it’s just a dream.   _John_.”

John shakes his head hard as if he’s negating what Sherlock is trying to impress upon him, but he still doesn’t wake.  His hand shakes, and Sherlock tightens his grip, still murmuring to him, saying his name over and over.

“No, no, no,” John moans, and his free hand reaches out, curling around Sherlock’s shirt.  “No, Sherlock, no, god, no, please, don’t.  Sherlock,  _please_.”

_Oh_.  

In an instant, Sherlock’s entire world view shifts.  He was aware of the nightmares, of course; he’s heard it when John gets up in the middle of the night and never returns to bed, heard his footsteps on the floor above, pacing and pacing and pacing.  But he had always assumed that they were the same nightmares as before, the ones he used to have before the Fall.  The ones about lifeless deserts and blood-spattered helmets and incessant gunfire.

Apparently, he had been wrong.  His heart suddenly feels heavy in his chest like its been filled with sand, making his blood gritty and painful as it moves through his veins.

“John,” he says, his voice breaking slightly.  He grips John’s shoulder and shakes it a little.  “John, please wake up.  I’m here, it’s okay, wake up.”

John gasps, and his eyes go wide, and Sherlock imagines he can see the reflection of John’s nightmare in them, the reflection of his own body falling from a rooftop.  

Frantic hands grapple at Sherlock’s shoulders, his shirt, pulling at him.  “Sherlock,” he says, and his voice is hoarse, a pale imitation of the one Sherlock is used to.  “Sherlock, don’t—”

He’s still stuck in the nightmare, still watching Sherlock fall.

“I’m here,” Sherlock says firmly but quietly.  “I’m here, John, it’s okay.”

Something wavers in John’s eyes, something that brings him closer to the realm of reality, but it doesn’t get him all the way there. 

“Sherlock?”  His fingers tremble at Sherlock’s temple, skimming down over his forehead, his nose, his lips.  Sherlock swallows as they dip beneath his chin, pressing into the soft flesh where his pulse beats, strong and just a touch too fast.  He stays still, allowing John this, allowing him to feel the reality of the life coursing through his body.

“It’s all right, John.  It’s okay now.”  He takes John’s hand in his and presses it to his own chest.  “See?  You can feel it, can’t you?  I’m here.  I’m alive.” 

But it isn’t enough; there’s still a thin film of fear in John’s eyes, distorting his perception.  He’s questioning the evidence that’s right before him; he can’t see what’s real and what isn’t.  But Sherlock doesn’t have to decide what to do next because John does that for him.  

The hand on his chest pushes, and Sherlock finds himself on his back, John half-draped over him, his ear resting above Sherlock’s heart.  Sherlock is very still at first, completely overwhelmed and utterly unsure of what to do.  He had begun this night thinking that John was too drunk to understand what he wanted from Sherlock; now he worries that John is reacting emotionally, is too caught up in his nightmare to think straight, and that he will regret waking up this way if Sherlock lets him stay there.

But he can’t possibly make him move, not when John’s breathing doesn’t sound as much like drowning, when the flush on his cheeks is receding, when his hand is no longer trembling where it rests on Sherlock’s stomach, wound into a fistful of his shirt.

Carefully, Sherlock places one hand at John’s nape, sweeping it down the length of his spine and back up.  With the other he eases John’s fingers out of their death grip on his shirt and interlaces them with his own instead.  John’s breath shudders out of him, and with it so does the tension he’d still been holding in his shoulders.

Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, his gaze tracking every imperfection and crack, but all of his focus is on the man in his arms.  He’s always known that John was more vulnerable than he acted, but he’d never been close enough to see it this clearly before.  And he’d never known that  _he_  had been such a factor in that vulnerability.

_Idiot_ , he thinks, shutting his eyes hard.

They don’t say anything for some time.  Sherlock doesn’t ask for specifics about the dream, and John doesn’t offer them up.  John is warm and solid, a comfortable weight against him.  He’s still groggy from the alcohol, so he’s not fully awake, but every now and then he does shift; he tightens his hold on Sherlock’s hand, then he hooks one leg over Sherlock’s to pull himself closer—Sherlock has to force his body not to react to that one—and then he turns his head up so that his lips just barely brush against Sherlock’s throat when he speaks.

“You stayed,” he says, and he still sounds half-drunk, but Sherlock isn’t sure whether that’s the after-effects of the nightmare or the beer still clogging his system.

“You asked me to,” he says as softly as he can but it sounds too loud in the darkness of the room.

He can feel John’s smile against his skin.  “Since when do you do what I ask?”

Sherlock opens his eyes.  He’d forgotten to close the curtains before he got into the bed, and the streetlights from outside light the half of John’s face that Sherlock can see in a golden glow.  He looks absolutely perfect like this, ensconced in Sherlock’s bed, in Sherlock’s arms, relaxed and trusting and beautiful.

“I’m hoping you might return the favor,” Sherlock says.

“Mm?  What favor?” John mumbles, already slipping back into slumber.

Sherlock weaves his fingers through John’s hair again and presses his lips to his forehead.  “Stay,” he whispers.  “When you wake up in the morning...stay with me.  Don’t run.”

John's head moves in a sleepy approximation of a nod.  “Mmkay.  M’gonna stay.”

There’s no guarantee that John will remember this conversation in the morning.  In fact, it seems more likely that he won’t, all things considered.  But that knowledge doesn’t do anything to prevent the warmth that spreads outwards from Sherlock’s chest and envelops his whole body in its embrace until he’s sound asleep, one hand falling limply to the mattress, the other still held tightly in John’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually never intended to write a chapter from Sherlock's perspective, but it happened anyway. I hope it was an enjoyable little insight into Sherlock's thoughts about all of this. In any case, in the next chapter, we'll be back to John and The Morning After.
> 
> Do you think John will remember?? ;)


	5. Keep Your Eyes Fixed On Me

The first thing John notices when he wakes up is the dull ache behind his eyes, the kind that means the second he moves his head he’s going to regret it.  He keeps very still, refusing to even open his eyes for fear that the light from the windows will burrow right into his brain and set the clanging off early.

The second thing John notices—once he’s sure he isn’t going to immediately vomit—is the sound, the soft and steady  _thumpthump thumpthump_  beneath his ear.  It takes him longer than it should to understand it and even longer to piece together what brought it about, and even after that there are still blank spots, things that he can’t slot into place.

He remembers leaving the pub, the cab ride, getting to the door—heat flames to life in his cheeks as he recalls looking for his keys, the press of Sherlock’s body against his own, dextrous fingers on his thigh.  The stairwell, Sherlock’s arm around him, a band of warmth keeping him steady, the smell of him in the dark space just beneath his jaw.  

John swallows hard and screws his eyes shut tightly because if he opens them now, if he sees Sherlock laid out beneath him, sleep-soft and vulnerable, he’s going to have a problem that will be very difficult to hide despite the pounding in his head.  It’s hard enough to control himself just feeling the solidity of the body under his own, the sharp angles giving way to soft curves, the rise and fall of Sherlock’s stomach beneath his hand with each slow breath, the slick feeling of sweat where John’s fingers have been pressed to bare skin, Sherlock’s shirt having ridden up just enough to allow John access in his sleep.  And they’re so close, closer than they were the previous morning, one of John’s legs hooked over Sherlock’s in just the right way, just the way he would do it if he meant to.  Unbidden, an image of Sherlock gasping and rocking his hips up, pushing himself, hot and hard, against John’s thigh has John sucking in a sharp breath.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John breathes and then freezes when Sherlock’s arm twitches where it’s loosely wrapped around John’s back.  But he doesn’t wake, and John lets out his breath.

_Control yourself, Watson._

He tries to remember what happened after the stairwell, but it’s like trying to focus on a blurry photograph; he can see the general picture but not the details.  Sherlock’s room, something about his shoes, falling into the bed, telling Sherlock he can stay—no, no,  _asking_  Sherlock to stay.

_Christ._   He never should’ve stayed so long at the pub.  He should’ve left after the second round.  And now here he is, lying in Sherlock’s bed with Sherlock himself spread out under him like the worst kind of temptation.  Had they been like this all night?  John vaguely remembers Sherlock sitting down beside him, but then he’d fallen asleep, and everything after that is irretrievable.  It’s frustrating because he knows there’s more there, something he just can’t put his finger on.

Eventually, he decides it’s useless; either it will come to him later or it won’t, but he’s not going to be able to bully his brain into remembering, at least not while he’s distracted by the heat of the body under his own.  

Finally feeling calm enough to open his eyes, he takes in his predicament.  Just like the morning before, he’s staring down the length of Sherlock’s body, only this time is worse because he can see the way their legs are entwined and the way Sherlock’s hand is resting so close to his own, almost touching as if they’d fallen asleep with their fingers wound together, and it makes something in John’s chest lurch painfully.

Sherlock’s breathing remains steady and deep, so John knows he’s sound asleep.  It’s simpler than he thought it would be to slip out from beneath Sherlock’s arm without waking him.  The hard part is the ache in his chest combined with the inevitable rush of pain to his head when he finally moves.

Ever since Sherlock came back, John hasn’t been drinking as much, so his tolerance has plummeted.  Drinking like he had the night before had been a mistake.  As he stumbles to the loo, clutching his head in one hand, he wants to blame Greg for continuing to goad him about his relationship with Sherlock, but he knows it’s his own damn fault for being too much of a coward to just tell the man how he feels.  He also knows Greg was really only trying to help, but what does Greg really know about it anyway?

_Falling’s not so bad when there’s someone there to catch you._

Greg’s words float back to him, and John pauses with his hand in the air, reaching for his toothbrush.  He hadn’t really let the words sink in before, too caught up in his own conviction that Greg was just trying to push his buttons.  But now they come back, and John remembers the emotion in Greg’s voice as much as the words themselves, the softness in which he’d wrapped the statement, and he realizes something.

_Greg thinks Sherlock is in love with me._

No, not just thinks.  He’s  _sure_  of it in a way that John has never been.

Slowly, John goes about his morning routine, half his focus on what he’s doing and the other half on the man sleeping in the bed he’s just abandoned.  He’s had the thought before as recently as the previous morning, the thought that Sherlock might feel something for him.  It’s an easy thing to think when you’re lying wrapped up in someone’s arms, especially when it happens two days in a row.  But with the reality of the day setting in—the cold bathroom tile beneath his feet, the grit coating his tongue and teeth, the bitter taste of paracetamol to combat the raging headache—he begins to remember that the idea of being with Sherlock, really  _being_  with Sherlock, is just a fantasy, a dream that’s gotten tangled up with reality due to a couple of atypical nights.

It doesn’t matter that whenever they share a bed they wind up wrapped around each other because John knows that Sherlock doesn’t want that, doesn’t want  _him_ , at least not enough to change the way things are.  Even if Sherlock has feelings for him, even if Sherlock desires him in some way, it’s not enough because Sherlock has always been married to his work, and John has never begrudged him that.  After all, it’s not Sherlock’s fault that John is hopelessly in love with him.  And if the choice is between having Sherlock as a friend or losing Sherlock by asking for too much of him then the decision is obvious.

John sighs as he rinses his razor and wipes his face down with a flannel.  He stares at his reflection in the mirror and wonders if he looks as hollow as he feels.  He thinks he looks the same as he always has, but maybe that’s just because he’s always been a bit hollow.  It’s just that he’s usually better at pretending to himself that he’s not.  He looks away and tosses the flannel in the hamper, turning to start up the shower.

* * *

Sherlock is still in bed when John tip toes back into the room a half hour later to retrieve his shoes.  He’s moved, though; he’s on his side now, curled up around the pillow that had been on John’s side of the bed, hugging it to his chest like a child would with a stuffed toy.  John tries and fails not to notice how adorable it is while he stoops down to pick up his shoes.  It isn’t until he’s crouched down by the bed that he can see Sherlock’s face and realizes that his eyes are open, and they’re fixed on John.

For a moment, neither of them moves, and John's gut clenches with a sudden sick feeling as he recognizes the expression on Sherlock’s face.  It’s one he’s only seen once before, in the dead of night at an empty swimming pool, the lights from above reflecting eerily off of the water as Sherlock stepped toward him, truly unmasked for the first time since John had known him.  For the tiniest of seconds, Sherlock had felt betrayed, had doubted that John was really John, and his utter devastation had taken over every feature of his face, making him look ten years younger and so desperately vulnerable.

That’s what John sees now, hunched down on the floor of Sherlock’s room, attempting to sneak around like some kind of shameful one night stand, too embarrassed to be caught out.

But then he blinks, and it’s gone; Sherlock is Sherlock again, and John is left with a feeling like he’s missed some sort of colossal opportunity, but he doesn’t know what it is.  

Sherlock looks away and sits up in the bed, running his hand through his wild curls, and John slowly rises to his feet, watching him warily because the devastation might be gone, but there’s a certain careful blankness to Sherlock’s expression that’s almost as unbearable.

Sherlock glances at the shoes in John’s hand and then looks toward the window.  “Pick up some biscuits while you’re out.  Mycroft stole the last of mine.”

John doesn’t even think to raise his usual (useless) argument about him not being Sherlock’s personal grocer.  He’s still stuck in the previous moment, trying to understand what about  _this_  situation could put  _that_  expression on Sherlock’s face, an expression that was last seen when they were facing down certain death.  Apparently he’s silent for too long because Sherlock looks at him again, and this time his eyebrows draw together in a tense line.

“Well?  Are you leaving or not?”

There’s more bite to the words than John thinks is warranted, but it worries more than irritates him.  Trying to puzzle out Sherlock’s thoughts and feelings is an impossible task, but John knows—he can feel it deep in his chest like someone’s pushing a dull knife into his heart—that Sherlock is hurting.  What he doesn’t know is why.

He suddenly recalls the night they found out the Woman was alive.  He had known there was something happening deep within Sherlock, something that was overwhelming him, making him feel too much, too hard.  And John had tried, then, to get the answer.  He had tried in the only way he knew how—by simply asking.  But Sherlock had turned instead to the violin, and John had let the moment slip through his fingers.

He somehow manages to unclog his throat, and he even gets his mouth halfway open, but Sherlock is clearly tired of waiting because he just rolls his eyes (with as much hostility as one can muster with an eyeroll) and flings himself back down onto the bed, turning his back to John and wrestling with the sheets until they’re almost up over his head.

“I’ll be gone when you get back.  Won’t be home until late,” he says, his voice muffled.

John knows he’s now been dismissed more than once, and yet he can’t make his feet move.  “Where are you going?”

“Out.”  He over-enunciates the “t,” making it clear that it’s the last word he plans on saying.

John hesitates for another few seconds, the silence broken only by the heavy sound of Sherlock’s breathing, harsher than it should be.  The dress shirt that he never changed out of the night before is tight around his back, and John watches the way his spine pushes against it with every angry breath.  

He imagines going to him, sitting down on the bed, his side pressed to Sherlock’s back, and running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair until the other man’s tension melts away.  He imagines Sherlock turning to him, curling into John’s body, taking comfort from him even if he won’t say what’s wrong.

After a moment that feels like an eternity, John turns and walks out the door.

* * *

True to his word, Sherlock doesn’t show up at the flat that night until close to midnight.  11:48, to be precise.  John knows this because he’s lying in his bed, wide awake, and has been lying in his bed, wide awake, since 9:53.

All throughout the day John carried the weight of the morning with him.  Sometime around lunch—which he’d eaten by himself in a cafe near Bart’s, definitely  _not_  hoping he might run into Sherlock around there—he had decided that he must have done or said something to Sherlock the night before.  He must have upset him in those lost hours that John can’t remember, the ones that are tucked away in some beer-hazed corner of his brain.

He’d tried to distract himself during the day, hoping that if he stopped thinking about it so much it might simply come to him the way things do sometimes.  He’d gone to the surgery for a while to catch up on paperwork, he’d browsed a bookstore, he’d gone to the shops to pick up Sherlock’s biscuits, he’d had late afternoon tea with Mrs. Hudson.  But nothing was diverting enough; the mystery was always there in the back of his mind, brushing against his consciousness like a single hair that’s stuck to your shirt and keeps tickling your arm.

It stays with him until he crawls into bed, exhausted from checking the clock every five minutes, waiting for the telltale sound of Sherlock’s swift step on the stairs.  And it stays with him even after that, and he tosses and turns, never able to get comfortable enough.  He repeatedly tells himself this is  _not_  because of the absence of a warm body next to his own or because of the way his own bed feels strangely  _wrong_  now that he’s spent a night in Sherlock’s.  He’s just restless; people get restless sometimes, that’s all there is to it.

Of course, that deception only lasts until the front door opens and closes, and John’s eyes fly open at the sound of the creaking steps.  Sherlock’s tread is slower than usual, and the flat is quiet enough that John can hear it when he simply drops his heavy coat on the floor instead of hanging it up, and he can hear it when Sherlock throws himself onto the sofa instead of going towards his bedroom.

John turns on his side, the bed creaking beneath him, and wonders where Sherlock’s been all day, if he’d simply gone out to avoid John or if he really did have pressing issues to deal with.  He suspects the former, and it makes his throat tight because he can’t fix it if he doesn’t know what caused it, doesn’t know what put that particular expression of betrayal on Sherlock’s face, and it’s been haunting him all day.

He sighs and turns over onto his back again just as the first quivering notes of the violin seep beneath the crack in his door, followed by silence.  His breath stalls, and he lies still, listening for more.  There are a few more quiet seconds, during which John pictures Sherlock, standing there in front of the window in the dark, his silhouette outlined in moonlight as he fiddles with the instrument until it’s just right.

When the music begins again, it begins in earnest, and John closes his eyes, letting it settle over him, a blanket of sound.  It’s a soft song, slow and melodious.  John has heard it before, usually on nights when he’s woken up in a cold sweat and gotten up to pace and pace until he’s afraid the floorboards will give out beneath his feet and send him plunging into darkness.  Often on those nights, he will be lulled back into bed by the sound of the violin, by the same tune he’s hearing now, a familiar comfort that wraps him in its notes.

It feels like an apology, the kind of apology only Sherlock would be able to communicate properly, and John finally lets out a long, low breath and falls into a deep sleep.

* * *

  _He’s chasing something; it’s one of the exhilarating chases that takes him across rooftops and over fences and down dark alleys, always with Sherlock by his side.  At first, it’s invigorating, it’s exciting; he’s got the wind in his face and the world at his feet.  He’s got Sherlock’s determined voice reaching out behind him as they make sharp turns and leap over obstacles.  It doesn’t even occur to him that Sherlock shouldn’t be behind him, that Sherlock is always the one in the lead._

_It’s not until his thighs start burning and his feet begin to feel like lead that he realizes they aren’t chasing a criminal at all.  They aren’t chasing anyone. Sherlock’s words begin to take shape, and they’re hoarse and broken like he’s been shouting for hours._

_“Stay,” he’s gasping.  “Stop running,_ please _, stay, John,_ stay with me. _”_

_John stumbles, and his knees hit the ground hard; he can’t get his hands up fast enough, and the pavement rushes toward his face—_

The impact of it makes him jolt up in the bed, his heart hammering in his chest and a phantom ache in his knees.  The flat is quiet except for the heaving of John’s breath and the pounding of his own heart in his ears.  He grabs for the clock on the nightstand, his eyes scrunched up against the brightness of the neon numbers.  It’s 3:22 in the morning, and the violin has long since been abandoned.

John drops the clock with a clatter and leans forward until his head is between his knees, his hands wrapped up in his hair.  The dream is fading fast, but there’s a piece of it that he needs to grasp before it slips away, a tendril of memory that somehow fought its way back to the surface of John’s unconscious mind.

_Stay with me._

John pulls in a sharp breath, and it all comes rushing back, hitting him like a particularly savage wave, determined to sink him in its emotional depths.

_Sherlock had asked him to stay._

They’re still blurred around the edges, the memories, like old photographs that have begun to curl in on themselves.  But he can still hear the gentle way Sherlock’s voice caressed the words, can feel the way Sherlock’s lips brushed against his forehead, can pick out the moment that he promised Sherlock he would stay.

Before he even realizes what he’s done, his sheets have been thrown unceremoniously aside, and he’s out of the bed and halfway down the stairs. He makes it all the way to the kitchen before he stops, a trickle of cold fear oozing down his spine because what if he’s already too late?  What if that was his last chance, and he walked away from it?  

The betrayal in Sherlock’s face that morning comes back to him full force, and he has to press the heels of his hands into his eyes until he’s seeing stars to make the image disappear.  He takes deep breaths down into his belly, trying to ease the racing of his heart.  He’s spent so long wanting this, so long thinking he could never have it, and when the chance finally presented itself to him he had been too hungover to notice.

He lowers his hands and lets out another breath, and when he opens his eyes they fall on Sherlock’s violin, abandoned in Sherlock’s chair, the wood gleaming even in the low light from the street lamps outside.  The soft sound of the melody that had carried him off to sleep replays in his mind, and John looks toward Sherlock’s closed bedroom door, peering through the dimness of the hallway, more sure than ever that Sherlock  _had_  been playing for him that night.

He takes a step.  And then another.  His throat feels thick and useless, and his heart stutters, but he makes himself keep going, slow, steady steps down the hallway until his hand is suddenly wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob.  He pauses, holding his breath, but there’s no sound from inside the room.  Either Sherlock is asleep or he’s being very, very still.  John supposes he’s about to find out.

It’s so unlike the last time he had let himself into Sherlock’s room in the middle of the night.  This time there is no insanely loud banging around; this time there is no shouting or falling or injuries or mosquitos.  This time, there’s only the stillness of the room, the darkness that blankets everything in silence except for the even in-and-out of Sherlock’s breathing where he’s curled up into a ball on the bed.

John, frozen in the doorway, swallows hard.  He hadn’t really had anything past “Open the door” planned out, and now he’s stuck, his thoughts going in seventeen different directions.  One part of him, the part that’s always won out in the past, wants him to leave, to back out of the room and shut the door behind him.  It’s hard to resist that part, to be honest.  As much as he wants this, as much as he wants Sherlock, he’s still fucking  _terrified_  of what will happen if he lays himself at Sherlock’s feet this way.  There are so many things he might have misread, things he might have misremembered.

_What if I’m wrong?_

It’s the thought that’s been plaguing him for years, every time Sherlock so much as looked at him a certain way and John had thought,  _maybe he does want this._   It’s always been the loudest thought in his head.

Except now it’s not.  Now, it’s just  _one_  of the thoughts in his head.  The others, the ones that want him to wake Sherlock or get into the bed or just say his name, are crowding around it, trying to suffocate it.  And it must be working because suddenly the door is closed, and John is still inside the room.

Slowly, he steps toward the bed.  Sherlock hasn’t stirred, hasn’t even twitched, and John is struck by how vulnerable he is like this, so soft and defenseless in his sleep.  He’s so beautiful it makes John’s chest hurt, and John doesn’t have the heart to wake him even though he feels like the new knowledge he has will suffocate him unless he can get the words of his lungs.

The bed dips when John lowers himself onto it, and Sherlock’s body tilts toward him every so slightly, but he still doesn’t wake.  John moves carefully, staying on top of the sheets, just in case his presence isn’t wanted after all.  He rolls onto his side and moves as close as he can to Sherlock without touching him, folding his hands beneath his cheek and finally going still, letting his gaze roam the planes of Sherlock’s face with unguarded affection.

_Keep your eyes fixed on me,_  Sherlock had pleaded with him once.

John hadn’t been able to save him then, but maybe now that  _he_  was ready to leap, Sherlock would be there to catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! Don't worry, this isn't the end. There will be at least one more chapter. Possibly more. I'm horrible and haven't planned this out, but we'll see! Keep a lookout for more updates, in any case! <333


	6. Are You Listening Now?

The rest of John’s night is spent drifting in and out of consciousness.  He’s exhausted enough that his eyes close for a couple of stretches, granting him a bit of restless sleep, but the rest of the time he’s too busy staring at the man in the bed beside him, his gut twisting with nerves and his head filled with doubts.  Every time Sherlock makes a sound or shifts in his sleep John tenses, wondering if this will be when he wakes and finds John unexpectedly in his bed.

Gradually, night fades into morning, sunlight slipping through a crack in the curtains, brightening the room bit by bit until Sherlock’s face is bathed in a soft glow that makes him look even more unfairly beautiful.  John wants to touch him, wants to reach out trace the outline of his lips, rub his thumb along a sharp cheekbone, feel the silky strands of inky hair between his fingers.  He restrains himself with the thought that, if he’s patient, those things might be allowed soon, and it isn’t long after that that Sherlock begins to stir.

He doesn’t wake all at once; it’s an unhurried process, and John watches it with an intensity that betrays his fear that he may never get to experience this again.  It starts with a deeper breath, pulled in through parted lips and then slowly released.  His fingers twitch where they’re splayed out on the mattress between them, and then his legs uncurl, lengthening and spreading out beneath the sheets as he eases over onto his back.  One hand comes up, rubbing at his face, and his eyes flutter open and then closed again as the sunlight hits them.

John remains still and unnoticed for the moment, his breath held captive in his chest as Sherlock manages to peel his eyes open once more.  For a moment, he’s frozen that way, his gaze focused on the ceiling and his hand curled up in his hair.  It isn’t until he lets out a tired sigh and drops his hand back to the bed, inadvertently scraping his knuckles along the bare skin of John’s knee, that he realizes he isn’t alone.

He startles, jerking his hand back to himself and turning his head so fast John wonders if it hurts his neck.  When he sees who’s in his bed, the tension leaves his shoulders, but the surprise remains in every line of his body.

“Hi,” John says, his voice weak from disuse.  He’d hardly spoken since the previous morning after all.

Sherlock blinks slowly, his expression unchanging.  Instead of replying immediately, he lifts his hand.  His fingertips are warm as they graze John’s cheek, a quick, tender slide of skin-on-skin before he pulls his hand back to his chest, and John’s eyes flutter, heat rising to color his cheeks.  

“Hi,” Sherlock breathes, and the word is hushed like a prayer.

John bites his lip.  “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

Sherlock just stares at him for another minute.  His eyes are wide and a little bit lost until he shuts them hard and turns his face back toward the ceiling, pulling in another deep breath.  He holds it for about thirty seconds, during which time John can feel his heartbeat in his throat, and then finally he lets it out on a rush of air.  When he turns back toward John he does so with his whole body, easing over onto his side until they’re face-to-face, his curls falling artlessly across his forehead in just such a way that makes John itch to reach out and press them back.

“You’re in my bed,” Sherlock says.

If it had been any other situation John might have teased him for stating something so very obvious.  As it is, however, there’s a certain hesitant reverence wrapped around the words as if Sherlock is still actually unsure of the truth that he can plainly see.  So John lets it slide because he’s well accustomed to that feeling himself.

“John?”  Sherlock’s voice has taken on a hint of concern.  “Are you--is everything all right?”

“I had a dream last night,” John says in lieu of answering because he doesn’t yet know whether everything is all right.  “And when I woke up, I...I remembered something.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightens briefly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down once.  “What did you remember?”

John doesn’t answer immediately.  His mouth feels inexplicably dry all of a sudden, and he licks his lips.  As his tongue makes its brief appearance, Sherlock’s eyes dart down and then back up, and there’s a swooping sensation in John’s stomach.  Surely that’s a good sign that he’s not completely off track here, so he takes a chance and scoots fractionally closer, just enough so that their faces are only about a foot away from each other.  His hand brushes Sherlock’s in the space between them, and he leaves it there, their fingers just barely touching.  Sherlock’s gaze remains steady and sure on John’s face, and he doesn’t pull away.

“The other night,” John says, and he has to pause and clear his throat.  “The other night, I...after the pub, when I was...when I--”

“You had a nightmare,” Sherlock supplies quietly, and it sounds heavy and sad.  “You had a nightmare about when I jumped.”

John blinks, taken aback.  “I--how did you know what it was about?”  His memories of that night are still mired in an alcoholic fog; he doesn’t even remember the actual dream he’d had, only that it was about the Fall and that the sound of Sherlock’s heartbeat, strong and  _real_ , had been the only thing capable of calming him down.

Sherlock’s eyes cut away, downcast, redirected toward the place where their hands are commingling on the mattress.  Almost as if he’s not even thinking about it, he runs a fingertip along the veins in the back of John’s hand, sending tendrils of sensation all the way up his arm.

“You talk when you’re dreaming, did you know that?” Sherlock asks.

It takes John a moment, distracted as he is by Sherlock’s touch, but when it sinks in it’s accompanied by a sense of dread deep down in his gut.  “I didn’t know that, no.”

“Is that what you dreamt last night, too?”  He sounds like he’s been kicked in the chest.  “Is that what you dream about every night?”

John sucks in a sharp breath.  “No.  Sherlock,  _no_ , it’s not...”  He moves closer, gripping Sherlock’s hand and cradling it between both of his own.  They’re separated by the blankets that John never got under, but their knees knock together through the fabric, and Sherlock’s hand is warm where John holds it against his chest.  “That’s not what I remembered.  That’s not why I’m here.”

Sherlock is close enough now that his breath tickles John’s nose when he exhales shakily.  “Then why are you here?”

John pulls his lips between his teeth, his eyebrows drawing together as he takes in the pain still etched into the lines of Sherlock’s face.  “I’m here because you’re hurting, and I think it’s my fault.”  He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes for a beat longer than a blink before releasing the words.  “I’m here because...because you asked me to stay, and I didn’t.”

The silence that follows is short but heavy, and John’s breath is labored beneath the weight of it.  " _Oh_ ,” Sherlock says at the end of it.

John doesn’t even realize he’s closed his eyes again until there’s a light touch to his jaw, and he opens them to find Sherlock staring at his own fingers as they trail a line of shivers along John’s skin.

“I shouldn’t have acted the way I did,” he says.  “I didn’t actually expect you to remember.”

John turns his head, his heart beating out a fierce rhythm, and presses his lips to the palm of Sherlock’s hand like he’d wanted to do that first night.  “I remember now.”

Sherlock’s hand trembles against his lips, and John turns his head back, allowing Sherlock the chance to pull his hand away.  He doesn’t, though, instead letting his fingers rest against the underside of John’s jaw, a gentle pressure against his pulse point.

“I’ve been trying to tell you what I want for days,” he murmurs.  He meets John’s eyes, and there’s something fragile behind his gaze.  “But I didn’t know how.  I still don’t know how.”

His hand moves down until it’s pressed against John’s chest, rising and falling with John’s uneven breaths.  John’s heart lurches as if it’s desperate to escape the prison of his body and find refuge in the cradle of Sherlock’s palm.

“You’re better at it than you think,” John says softly.  “I was just so caught up in my own head that I wasn’t listening.”

This time, it’s Sherlock that moves.  His hand slides up John’s chest and curves around the back of his neck, and he uses that grip to leverage himself into John’s space until they’re pressed together from chest to toe, until John can feel Sherlock’s hair brushing against his forehead, can feel Sherlock’s breath on his lips, can see every shade of color in Sherlock’s eyes.  His breath stalls, but his body moves automatically, shifting to align itself perfectly with Sherlock’s, his hand settling on the dip in his waist where the sheet has slipped down enough that only the thin fabric of Sherlock’s worn sleep shirt separates John’s hand from the heat of his skin.

Sherlock’s voice is a whisper, and John can almost taste the words as they fall into the infinitesimal space between them.  “Are you listening now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come! Thank you for reading this far!


	7. My Heart, My Love, My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm sorry it took us so long to get here, but here we are at last! I hope you enjoy this final chapter. Next time, I promise to plan my stories out better, so that I don't leave you all hanging for months. The Cheese is strong with this chapter, but I think it works. <3

Sherlock’s voice is a whisper, and John can almost taste the words as they fall into the infinitesimal space between them.  “Are you listening now?”

Not trusting himself to speak, he just nods, the tip of his nose skimming Sherlock’s.  Sherlock hesitates, his eyes flitting back and forth between John’s as if searching for reluctance, for some hint of uncertainty.  

John licks his lips and deliberately brushes his nose against Sherlock’s again. “I’m listening,” he says.  “Tell me what you want, Sherlock, I’m listening.”

And that’s all Sherlock needs to surge forward, to close that last bit of distance between them with a tilt of his head and the warm pressure of his lips.  Instantly, John’s eyes flutter shut, and all he can do is surrender to the sensation of Sherlock’s mouth, his tongue, his hands, his skin.  He presses closer, yearning to be closer, always closer.

“This,” Sherlock gasps, and John takes the opportunity to press kisses to the sharp line of his jaw.  Sherlock’s head tips back, his fingers curling in John’s hair, gripping too tightly.  “This is what I want.”

“Yeah, yes, good,” John says, breathless, the words muffled against Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock moves restlessly, his leg curving over John’s hip, his hand gripping the collar of John’s shirt so tightly the fabric digs into John’s neck.  He rolls onto his back, pulling John on top of him.  John’s knees push into the mattress on either side of Sherlock’s hips, and Sherlock drags him back down into another searing kiss.

“Hey.”  John’s mumble is lost against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s hands are on either side of his face, and John covers them with his own, squeezing and easing his head back a little.  “Hey, hey, slow down.”  Sherlock cranes his neck, trying to chase after him, but John sits up and gently presses him back against the bed.

Sherlock makes a frustrated sound.  “You asked what I wanted.”

One side of John’s mouth quirks up in a smile, and he pulls Sherlock’s hand up to his mouth, speaking against the thin skin of his wrist.  “I just think maybe the bed isn’t the best place to sort this out.”

“John, the bed is the  _only_  place to sort this out.”

“I’m not talking about sex—”

“I am!”

“—but even if I were, I promise you...” He leans down and whispers into Sherlock’s ear.  “The bed is  _not_  the only place for  _that_.”

Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath and turns his head, trying to catch John’s mouth with his own, but John dodges him and sits back up.

“John—” Sherlock starts, his tone petulant.

“I don’t want to have sex right now,” John cuts him off.

Sherlock goes still, his expression shifting from one of flushed irritation to one of badly hidden anxiety.  John hurries to explain.

“No, I really  _do_ want to have sex right now,” he says.  “With you.  Very much.  But I don’t want to rush this.  Not this.  Not with you.”

Sherlock’s expression softens, but there are still tight lines around his mouth.  “John, I would hardly call  _three-and-a-half years_  rushing.”

“You know what I mean,” John says softly.

There’s a moment of silence during which Sherlock appears to be thinking hard about something.  And then, quite suddenly, there’s a flurry of movement and John finds himself on his back, staring up, wide-eyed, at Sherlock looming over him.

“I have to tell you something, John, and I need you to listen very carefully,” Sherlock says.  John is distracted by the way his curls hang down over his forehead, inky against his pale skin.  “ _John_.”

“Yeah, yes, I’m listening,” he says, blinking hard and shaking his head.  He lifts a hand, touches Sherlock’s cheek.  “I’m listening.  What is it?”

Sherlock takes a breath and presses his forehead to John’s, his eyes closed.  “I’m scared, too.”

John’s throat constricts, and he opens his mouth, but Sherlock goes on before he can say anything.

“I know that you want this,” he says, and he kisses John once, softly.  “But you’re afraid of what will happen if you let yourself have it.”

“Sherlock—” His voice is hoarse, and he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say because Sherlock is, of course, right.  He’s fucking terrified.  It doesn’t matter that his brain has ground to a halt, though, because Sherlock isn’t done.

“But you need to know that I’m afraid, too,” he says.  “I’ve never...felt this way.  Ever.  About anyone.   _Not ever,_ John.  Do you understand?”

John bites his lip hard.  The pain keeps him focused as he cups Sherlock’s face in his hands, his thumbs sweeping along the sharp line of those cheekbones.  “Felt what way?”

Sherlock kisses him again, and it feels shaky and desperate.  “It’s like...like I didn’t know I was alone until I met you, and now that I have you, I...I don’t think I could ever go back.”

“You did go back,” John says before he can stop himself, and Sherlock flinches.  John scrambles to fix it.  “No, I just mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Sherlock cuts him off.  “And you have every right to hold that against me.”

“I don’t,” John says quickly.  “Sherlock, it’s not—I don’t blame you, not anymore.  I mean.  Yes, I wish you hadn’t left me out of it, but you did what you had to do—”

“And you’re afraid I’ll do it again,” Sherlock finishes.

John’s mouth falls shut because he doesn’t know how to refute that claim without lying.  He sighs, closes his eyes.  “This is what I meant when I said the bed wasn’t the best place to sort this out...”

“You’re afraid I’m going to leave you again,” Sherlock says, relentless now that he’s burrowed his way to the core of John’s fears.  “You think you’ll let yourself have this with me, that you’ll let down your guard, let me into your heart, and then I’ll throw myself off another building.”

“ _Christ_.” John’s heart gives a painful lurch, and he sits up so quickly that it takes all of Sherlock’s practiced reflexes to avoid their heads crashing together. Sherlock doesn’t allow himself to be dislodged, though; he remains firmly in John’s lap, gripping John’s wrists to stop him from hiding his face in his hands.  “Sherlock, you can’t just— _say things_  like that,  _Jesus_.”

“You have to confront it, John, or we’ll never make it,” Sherlock says firmly.  “You have to admit that you don’t trust me, or this will never—”

“Trust isn’t black and white, Sherlock!” John says.  He stops trying to free his hands and instead leans forward, hiding his face against the warmth of Sherlock’s chest.  “I trust you.  I do, I trust you with my life.  You know that.  I’ve put my life in your hands so many times, and I would do it again a thousand more.”  He sighs, nudges his face against the curve of Sherlock’s neck, his lips brushing Sherlock’s pulse point.  “I just don’t trust you with  _yours_.”

The sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, his own blood rushing through his head, is all John hears for a moment.  Sherlock’s chest rises and falls against him, and his grip on John’s hands relaxes, giving John room to curve his arms around Sherlock’s waist, pull him closer, bury his face in his shoulder, and just  _breathe_.

Sherlock’s breath tickles his ear when he finally speaks.  “That’s why I’m giving it to you.”

John frowns.  “Giving what to me?” he mumbles.

There’s palpable tension in the rigid muscles of Sherlock’s arms, in the way his throat works around a hard swallow.  “I—I’ve done some research, and I am aware that what I am about to say is...not usually what one says after a first kiss, but...I think you should know.”

John pulls back.  Sherlock’s jaw is tight, his face is flushed, and there’s a worried line in between his eyes that John wants to touch, to smooth over until it’s gone.  “Sherlock, whatever it is—”

“I’m in love with you, John.”

The words are careful, measured, spoken in that simple, matter-of-fact way that Sherlock talks about his experiments or a dead body.  Which is good, really, because John isn’t sure what his brain would do if Sherlock’s declaration of love was like a normal person’s.  As it is, his brain feels like its been wrung out like a sponge, like everything he used to know is leaking from his ears and all that’s left are those six words, echoing in an empty chamber inside his head.  It’s a good thing he’s got so much space in there now, though, because Sherlock barely gives him a moment to breathe before he’s off again, the words spilling out of him as quickly as his deductions.

“I know that romantic relationships are supposed to develop over time and that the ‘love talk’ should come once both parties have agreed to be committed to one another and have spent time being a ‘couple,’ but I felt it was important to tell you now because I firmly believe that the only way you will be able to trust me with your heart is if you know, without a doubt, that you have mine.  My heart, my love, my life, all of it.  It’s yours.  I could never take myself away from you again, you see, because I’m giving my life to you.  For as long as you want it.  I’ll never leave you again unless you want me to.”

Finally, he stops, and John isn’t sure if the room is actually as silent as he thinks it is or if the roaring in his head has actually deafened him.

“Sher—” His voice gives out.

Sherlock takes a breath, looking like he’s about speak again, but John is almost positive he wouldn’t survive another onslaught, so he covers Sherlock’s mouth with his hand, and Sherlock stares at him with wide, anxious eyes.

“You.  Christ, Sherlock,” John says, a hysterical laugh bubbling up out of him.  He wipes hastily at his eyes with his free hand, but when he looks back up at Sherlock his vision is still blurry.  “You’re...you astound me, did you know that?”

Mutely, Sherlock shakes his head.

“Those were practically marriage vows, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hesitates, then nods his head, and John’s laughter, shaky and hoarse, slips to the surface again.  His hand falls away from Sherlock’s mouth, and he’s not sure if he’s laughing or crying anymore, but Sherlock’s hands are warm on his face, tilting his gaze up.

“I meant it, John.  Every word.”

John can barely speak past the lump in his throat.  “Kiss me.  Right now.”

This time, there’s no hesitation.  Sherlock crowds into his space, kissing him fiercely, pressing him back against the bed with his whole body.

“Sherlock,” John says, and then gasps as their hips align in just the right way.  His hands skitter along Sherlock’s arms, squeezing and pulling. “Sherlock, listen.  Are you listening?”

"I’m listening,” Sherlock mumbles around messy, heated kisses.

John tips his head back, pulling in harsh lungfuls of air as Sherlock kisses down his throat.  His eyes still sting, and his voice hardly works, but he has to get this out.

“I love you,” he whispers.  “You have my life, too.  My heart.  Everything.  For as long as—”

“Forever,” Sherlock breathes against his chest, and the word seems to flow directly from Sherlock’s lips, absorbing into John’s skin and lodging themselves in his heart.

He laughs wetly.  “Yeah.  That sounds good.  Forever.”

He pulls Sherlock back up to him, gentling his kiss and holding him there as he falls headfirst into this new territory, into this new world.  And for once, he doesn’t mind the fall because he’s not alone, and neither is Sherlock.  They fall into each other the way they should have when Sherlock first came back, the way they should have before Sherlock ever jumped at all, and it’s not like his dreams, it’s not like dying at all; it’s like coming home.


End file.
